


Sawbones

by Mums_the_Word



Series: Did I Ever Tell You? [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Doctors & Physicians, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7796149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this second installment of the “Did I Ever Tell You?” series, Neal displays a unique skill set acquired during his pre-Peter days. Of course, as usual, his handler is not very pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sawbones

**Author's Note:**

> This scenario is borrowed directly from the “Catch Me If You Can” playbook. I must give credit where it is due.  
> Also, thanks again to Treon for providing the screen caps.

 

     Peter, Jones, and Neal were off on a road trip this afternoon to Nyack, New York, a small, quiet hamlet west of the Hudson River across the Tappan Zee Bridge. The three had been working a currency-counterfeiting ring for weeks, and had finally gotten a break when Neal picked up some suggestive hints on the streets of Manhattan. Peter decreed that they needed to investigate and get the lay of the land in Nyack. As the trio made their way to Peter’s car in the FBI garage, Peter threw an aside over his shoulder.

     “Neal’s going to be riding shotgun today, Jones, ‘cause he gets carsick on long jaunts.”

     Neal just gave the junior agent a “what can you do” shrug and a rueful little smile.

     “Sorry, Jones, but just know that it is certainly no picnic being in the death seat when Peter is driving!”

     “Well,” Jones shot back, “it’s good to know that the great Neal Caffrey isn’t perfect, and has at least one flaw.”

     So, that is how a cramped and uncomfortable Clinton Jones came to be staring at the back of two heads during the long drive. He decided to keep quiet as he listened to their non-stop bickering over radio station choices and abrupt lane changes. These two really were the quintessential “Odd Couple,” the long-suffering FBI agent mused to himself.

     He remembered that momentous day several years ago when Peter’s trap had worked, and they had finally caught the elusive young criminal. Jones was actually the one who put the cuffs on Caffrey and uneventfully escorted him out to the van. That should have been the end of it, but then, in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, Neal suddenly reappeared as Peter’s partner. The suave con man had swanned into the FBI as slick as butter even though he probably didn’t have a clue what was expected. But, somehow, he had managed to pull it off, worming his way into the hearts of the team until it felt as if he had always been there. Even hard-assed Diana allowed Neal some slack when he pushed the envelope, and her tacit fondness for the CI had always baffled Jones.

     It wasn’t as if he was jealous—certainly not! Clinton actually liked the guy, but he never lost sight of the fact that Neal had broken the law and was a felon. There should be consequences for one’s actions, and wayward criminals should not be rewarded, no matter how charming they are, or how valuable an asset. He had actually voiced those sentiments to the trio of parole board members a few years ago. Clinton’s stint in the Naval Academy had made him a staunch believer in following orders to the letter. Neal had a sweetheart deal, but he probably couldn’t be trusted to follow orders blindly, even if his life depended on it.

     Jones always followed orders, and he especially liked working for Peter Burke. He admired the intelligent and moral man who put faith in his team, and who magnanimously gave them every opportunity to chime in to speak their piece. However, Jones sometimes worried about his boss, who, at other times, seemed to exhibit tunnel vision when it came to Caffrey. Jones felt comfortable enough to go out on a limb occasionally to point out that Neal may not be worthy of Peter’s benevolence, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. Yes, Caffrey was Peter’s Achilles Heel and always would be, and Clinton would hate to see his mentor take a fall because of his kind heart. But, Jones had to face facts. Peter was his superior, and Jones knew his place in the pecking order. Peter and Caffrey, however, were more like good buddies—equals and friends on a professional as well as a social level.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Later in the day, with the aid of a street map, since the car’s navigation system had lost touch with towers and satellites, the three men finally found themselves in a quiet industrial section of Nyack, far off the beaten path. A large, two-story corrugated metal structure stood alone at the end of the dusty access road. No parked vehicles were in evidence, and everything looked quiet and deserted. Peter walked over to the closed door with Neal by his side and Jones not far behind.

     “We don’t have a warrant,” Peter whispered. “What are the odds that someone will invite us in if we knock and ask nicely?”

     Neal didn’t answer. He just used his index finger to give the door a little shove causing it to swing inward on squeaking, rusty hinges.

     “Oh my! Looks like somebody forgot to lock the door,” Neal deadpanned. “Maybe we should go in to make sure that nothing has been stolen.”

     Peter and Jones drew their guns and covered each other as they stepped inside. They found that there was no need for weapons because nobody appeared to be on the premises. However, the vast space was far from empty. Three huge printing presses were positioned around the area, and scraps of paper littered the floor. Neal stooped down to pick up a few remnants and examined them carefully.

     “I think that we’re definitely in the right place, guys. This piece of scrap is a blend of cotton and linen, the kind that the Crane Company in Dalton, Massachusetts produces for the Bureau of Printing and Engraving in Washington, DC. And those machines standing idle are Simultan presses, which are state-of-the-art, high speed, sheet-fed rotary offset presses that are capable of printing 10,000 sheets per hour.”

     Jones whistled under his breath. “That could mount up to a whole lotta folding money!”

     “Well, it looks like our counterfeiters have gotten out of Dodge fast and left their tools of the trade behind. Somebody must have tipped them off,” Peter said as he holstered his gun.

     “Well, they didn’t leave ‘everything’ behind,” Neal informed Peter.

      The CI had been examining each of the cumbersome printing presses and concluded that the lynchpin—the actual engraving plates—were missing.

     “If they have those, then they can start up again somewhere else with new presses,” Neal clarified.

     “If they were in a real hurry, maybe they didn’t take the plates with them,” Jones said, as he looked upward. “Maybe they just hid them temporarily, and are planning to come back for them. Why don’t I see what’s in that loft. We could get lucky and find them up there.”

     There was a fold-down set of rickety wooden stairs that provided access to the loft. Jones went up to investigate, and Peter and Neal could hear his footsteps above their heads as he poked around the space.

     “Nothing up here but junk,” Jones called to the two below as he looked over the side.

     As he began to make his way back down, the old, rotted treads on the ladder-like stairs groaned ominously. Suddenly, the third rung from the top cracked under his weight, and Jones’ foot went through the jagged opening. He lost his balance, teetering precariously as he frantically grabbed for the handrail. Unfortunately, that wood was just as weak as the stairs, and the young junior FBI agent found himself unexpectedly falling into empty air. Instinctively, he tried to use his left hand to hold onto the disintegrating wood, and his body jerked and swayed dangerously before plummeting down to the bottom floor. Neal and Peter immediately rushed over to the moaning man now lying on his back.

     “Jones! Don’t try to move!” Peter said anxiously as he took out his phone to call 911.

     Peter discovered that he had no reception bars on his phone, nor did Neal. Peter willed himself to remain calm. The next step would be to assess just how bad Jones’ injuries were. Then he could either drive to get help for him, or, if Clinton could make it to the car, Peter could take him to the nearest emergency room.

     Although in a lot of pain, Jones had managed to get himself into a seated position with a determined effort. Peter knew basic first aid, and he wasn’t sure that maneuver had been wise. There could be damage to his neck or his spine, although he seemed to be moving his arms and legs.

     “You need to keep still, Jones. We don’t know exactly what injuries that you may have sustained. Can you tell what part of your body took the brunt of that fall?” Peter asked anxiously.

     “I was just stunned for a minute, Peter,” Jones hissed through his gritted teeth. “What is really excruciating right now is my left arm and shoulder.”

     Neal had squatted down in front of the junior agent and was intently scanning the man’s upper body.

     “Jones,” he said calmly, “I think your exit strategy has won you the prize. It looks like you have dislocated your left shoulder.”

     “How do you know that?” Peter snapped. “He could have shattered all the bones in his arm when he hit the floor!”

     Neal had eased Jones out of his jacket, and, with gentle fingers, was gingerly probing the top and side of his left shoulder.

     Neal ignored Peter’s antagonistic tone and began to explain his diagnosis.

     “It’s a classic anterior subluxation of the glenohumeral joint, Peter. See how uneven the two shoulders are? There is no palpable bone on the outside of the left shoulder, and you can feel the muscle spasms around the joint. Jones is experiencing substantial pain, and is exhibiting some numbness in the fingers, as well. The humerus is definitely separated from the scapula, and that happened when he tried to stop his fall by grabbing the railing with his left hand. It literally jerked the bone out of the socket, and here we are.”

     Peter stared at Neal strangely. “It’s like you’re speaking in tongues, Neal. Do you actually know what you’re talking about?”

     Neal finally glanced up at his disbelieving and flabbergasted handler.

     “Trust me, Peter, I do know my way around bones and joints. Jones needs to have this dislocation reduced as soon as possible to avoid permanent nerve damage. If he’s willing, I can try a few manipulations to make things right. It won’t be fun to endure, but it actually won’t take long to do.”

     By now, Clinton’s forehead was awash with beads of sweat, and it took all of his willpower not to scream from the intense pain.

     “Peter,” he managed to rasp, “I really don’t think that I can get up, much less walk to your car. And since you don’t know how long that it will take to get help, maybe, fool that I am, I should let Caffrey do his thing.”

     Peter was indecisive as he frowned down at his CI. “Neal ……….”

     “Have a little faith for once, Peter. I’ve got this,” Neal promised.

     Neal then knelt at Jones’ side and, with a flourish, produced Peter’s wallet.

     “Bite down on this when we get started. The leather is pliable so you won’t break a tooth,” he advised as Peter glowered and grumbled about punk pickpockets.

     Then Neal instructed Peter to support the injured man’s back as he grasped Jones’ left wrist and gently rotated the arm outward while gradually moving it towards an overhead position. It was obvious that Neal was also maintaining some traction on the limb as the seconds ticked by. Things were going heart-sickeningly slow, and Clinton was actually keening through clenched teeth. Peter’s wallet would never look the same after this torture.

     “Can’t you just jerk it quickly back into place?” Peter asked. He was as anxious as Jones for this to be over.

     “Not without the danger of snapping the bone,” Neal answered quietly, the sweat now evident at his own hairline as well.

     Neal actually felt the pop as the ball and socket were joined once again. Jones sagged in place, the tension leaving his whole body.

     “Done!” Neal exclaimed, a smile blossoming on his face.

     He then unbuttoned the middle of Jones’ shirt and guided his left arm into a makeshift sling.

     “Take two aspirin and call me in the morning,” the con man said glibly. “My bill will be arriving in the mail!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter and Neal were seated in the waiting room of a local hospital that Peter had managed to find approximately twenty miles away from the warehouse. Jones had been taken back to the triage area, but, since he was actively breathing and not bleeding out, the wait for an x-ray would probably be a long one. Peter looked at Neal and cocked an eyebrow.

     “Okay, Buddy, what’s with all that medical jargon that you were spouting off back there, and how did you know what you were doing?”

     Neal turned and gave Peter an impish grin.

     “Did I ever tell you, Partner, about the time that I spent as the head of orthopedics in a small hospital in Florida?”

     Peter groaned, closed his eyes, and his head bounced against the wall behind him.

     “I don’t think that I want to hear this,” he mumbled.

     “Sure you do!” Neal reassured him. “Now don’t act all bored and disinterested. You know that you’re dying to hear all the juicy details, so I’m going to tell you. And please stop banging your head against the wall. It’s distracting.”

     Unperturbed by Peter’s lack of rapt attention, Neal forged ahead anyway.

     “Well, you Feds were giving me a real headache some years ago when I was trying to attend to some business in New Orleans. I hadn’t yet made your acquaintance, but I knew it was you. You were like a determined birddog on the scent. Actually, you were really close on my heels, Peter—too close for comfort. Fortunately, being close only counts in horseshoes,” Neal snickered.

     “Anyway, back to the story. So, since it was winter, I decided to blow the scene and motor on over to the Sunshine State to soak up some rays. I discovered that a small community hospital in Florida had suddenly found themselves in need of a temporary ER doctor to fill in as the head of orthopedics. There’s nothing like hiding in plain sight, Peter, so I put on my white coat, threw a stethoscope around my neck, and applied for the position. My credentials were impeccable, and they were fortunate to get me on such short notice.”

     Peter had raised one eyebrow, although his eyes remained closed.

     “Neal, you turn pale at the sight of blood. Just how did you manage to pull that off?”

     Neal was only too happy to solve the mystery.

     “Let me make the distinction, Peter, that I was an ‘orthopedist,’ not an ‘orthopedic surgeon.’ If a trauma patient came in with any blood gushing or the odd bone sticking out, I just covered that ugly sight with a sterile drape and stat-paged the orthopedic surgeon. For the most part, my job was looking at x-rays, and it’s really kind of easy to spot obvious breaks in bones. However, my backups were the radiologists who were ever so eager to give me their impressions and point out the problem areas. They would even transcribe their findings into reports. Afterwards, I’d thank them very graciously and say that I concurred with their findings.”

     Now Peter was looking at Neal—actually glaring at him.

     “Neal, don’t you realize that you could have killed somebody simply because you didn’t know what you were doing?”

     “Peter, please,” Neal said reasonably, “the Hippocratic Oath states that a physician shall do no harm, and I didn’t because I wasn’t the one who actually treated the patients. I had a whole little entourage of first and second year residents who champed at the bit to impress me with their knowledge. There were five of them, and they were super smart and knew their stuff inside and out. I’d listen to each one offer a diagnosis and their thoughts on treatment, and then I would take a consensus. If there were any differences of opinion, I would call for a consult by another orthopedist. I would listen to what the real physician had to say, and then I’d say, ‘Thank you, doctor, I concur.’

     ‘ _I concur’_ were the really important watchwords, you see, and I used them all the time. When I concurred with my residents, I’d let them write up the case notes, treatment orders, and the patient summary. I just countersigned them. Nobody ever died on my watch, I can assure you. Most of the time, we saw simple sprains or minute hairline fractures. In the vernacular of the ER, we’d _treat ‘em and street ‘em_ with a splint or a sling and a prescription for hyped-up Ibuprofen.”    

     The con man interrupted himself because he found that he had to admonish his handler once more. “Peter, please, you’re banging your head again.”

     Neal had looked very sincere as the story unraveled, but now a mischievous little smile made Peter extremely uncomfortable.    

     “It was really pretty straightforward stuff in the ER _,”_ the con man reminisced, “except for this one time when an exotic pole dancer was brought into a trauma bay. She actually had managed to break her ankle when she fell off her platform shoes during her very athletic performance. _Everybody_ wanted to treat her, let me tell you.”

     “Let me guess,” Peter postulated. “You probably held her hand while your little sycophants applied the cast.”

     “Well, I tried to make her feel as comfortable as possible during that very traumatic time,” Neal agreed. “But I didn’t date her. It would have been unethical of me to see my patients socially, Peter.”

     Peter gave Neal the creepy, evil eye stare until Neal finally confessed.

     “Well, there was this one really frisky ER nurse………”

     “Enough, Neal! No more! Rewind the tape,” Peter hissed. “I’m going to forget that I ever heard this, and you are going to forget that you ever said anything. That’s the best thing all around for everybody.”

     Neal just gave Peter a toothy grin and answered, “I concur.”


End file.
